


untitled (shave and a haircut)

by traveller



Category: The Hobbit (2012) RPF
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-01-10
Packaged: 2017-11-25 00:51:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/633342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traveller/pseuds/traveller
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <cite>“Just get rid of this fucking thing,” Richard says, scratching at the beard.</cite>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	untitled (shave and a haircut)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [leupagus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leupagus/gifts).



> Gus wanted a story about Richard getting his Thorin beard shaved off. I think she expected something sexy, but I wrote this instead. 
> 
> slightly tidied up from its tumblr form.

Nicco is thirty-odd and has an affection for bow-ties and braces, for narrow denims that he rolls to just above the ankle, exposing tattooed shins and handmade leather shoes. The shop was founded by Nicco’s father and uncle; they’re who Richard used to see, they’re who he was first dragged to by a mate who couldn’t stand the sight of the Suave and safety razors in Richard’s bathroom. It’s been twenty years, give or take; Tony’s retired and Gianni only comes in on Tuesdays, but Nicco and his staff are just as good as they ever were.

“What’re you wanting today?” Nicco asks, standing behind the chair with his hands resting light on Richard’s shoulders. The backs are inked with curling script: on the right, _amore_ ; on the left, _libertà_.

“Just get rid of this fucking thing,” Richard says, scratching at the beard. He’d called from the airport to ask if Nicco could fit him in.

In the mirror, Nicco nods, runs his fingers into Richard’s hair, holds a lock of it straight up before letting it fall. “Tidy you up, then? Like usual? I’m not gonna have some fucked off production assistant ringing and screaming at me?”

“No, we’re done.” He itches the beard again, settles back in the chair. “Just. Yeah, like usual.”

The rhythms of the barbershop are familiar and soothing, they’re homey in a way that nothing in Wellington was, no matter how comfortable he’d eventually gotten there. The low crackle of the stereo playing old jazz standards, the soft sounds of voices and scissors, of blades on the strop. Brando, Nicco’s ancient and obese bulldog, wheezing in his sleep, or his nails clattering on the hardwood as he wanders the room.

He relaxes with each step of the process, the steaming towel, the scour of the soap brush across his cheeks, Nicco’s firm, confident hands, guiding the cool steel razor over his skin. Every swipe of the blade makes him feel more human, more himself, more like Richard than the strange double life he’s led these last eighteen months, when any glance in a mirror could reveal a different face from the one before.

He keeps his eyes closed as Nicco trims his hair, combs and dresses it; he thinks about his flat and his bath and his books, days spooling out ahead with no obligations. When he finally blinks himself back into focus, the back of his neck tickling from the brush, he has to touch his bare cheeks with his palms to be sure.

“Good?” Nicco says, pulling the towel away and tossing it toward the hamper.

“Yeah, perfect. Cheers.” He unfolds himself from the chair and stretches.

“Next week?” Nicco prompts, and Richard nods.

“Yeah,” he repeats. “Perfect.”


End file.
